7 Days
by dartigen
Summary: One more week before Dean goes to hell, and things are getting stranger as the deadline closes in. Six years on, and Sam thinks that Dean might not be dead.
1. Monday

**A/N:** I know a lot of people don't like songfics, and I know the Dean-dies-and-Sammy-goes-insane-fics have been done to a crisp, but whatever. This popped into my head, so I had to type it.  
I also know that it's never explicitly stated what day or time the deal happens, so I decided on Monday because that's when Supernatural is on TV here in Aus. As for the timing, I guessed late in the evening.  
**Disclaimer:** All songs quoted or mentioned in this work of fiction are the property of their respective artists, and are only used to illustrate a point.  
Supernatural is the property of Eric Kripke and the CW, as are all characters mentioned, bar my OCs (who are also only to illustrate a point).  
The Wish List is the property of Eoin Colfer. Not me.

* * *

**MONDAY  
**T-168 hours

They're driving again. They've been driving for nearly a whole day now. Sam's bored and has a headache, but he's still trying to ignore the fact that Metallica is making his head hurt even more. He doesn't want to snipe at Dean anymore - he only had a week left. _One minute to midnight.  
__I guess it's times like these that make you appreciate things. Like how hunting made me appreciate the fact that I was alive. And now...it feels like we've just looked at the deal and gone, 'Yeah. Whatever' and gone on with our lives. It feels like we haven't even tried to do anything.  
__Gotta keep researching. Gotta find something. _

Sam sighs, and Dean looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He knows Sam's running himself into the ground, slowly but surely. He knows that this is killing him. _God, he's so skinny now! It makes me think of when he first got freakishly huge, he was like a friggin' stick figure!  
_Dean knows why Sam takes his clothes into the bathroom with him when he showers - he doesn't want Dean to see that he's lost so much weight, but it doesn't take Einstein to see that Sam's slowly dying from exhaustion. Not just outside, inside too.  
Sam doesn't talk much anymore. When he does, it's only to refuse offers of food, entertainment, or jobs, or sometimes to return a half-hearted attempt at banter. Sometimes, though, Dean thinks he can hear Sam mutter, 'it's Sam' when Dean calls him 'Sammy', or murmur 'Jerk' when Dean calls him 'Bitch'. It sounds pretty good to Dean; to him it means that the old Sammy is still hiding somewhere. But he doesn't respond to Dean much beyond that, except to snipe at him over the deal; that doesn't hurt him anymore. Dean's beyond the arguments, the fights, every attempt to talk him around and tell him what he did was wrong. Dean died a long time ago, three hundred and fifty-eight days ago, to be exact. Dean died when a knife went through his little brother's back, severed his spinal cord and punctured his heart. Dean died when Sam died in his arms; he's just going through the motions now.  
The song changes. Dean hasn't heard this one before, and he looks at Sam.  
_This yours?  
_Sam doesn't respond. Dean takes it as 'no'.

The song has a long intro, but as soon as the guitars come in, Dean knows exactly who made this. The intro continues, nearly a minute and a half, but Dean doesn't care - Metallica and long intros are synonymous. It's the lyrics that catch him. He nearly drives through a red light when he hears them.

_Pay no mind to the distant thunder,  
New day fills his head with wonder, boy..._

_Says it feels right this time,  
Turned it 'round and found the right line,  
"Good day to be alive, sir,  
Good day to be alive," he says..._

_Then it comes to be, that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel,  
Was just a freight train comin' your way, yeah,_

Dean clenches his teeth and tries to ignore the song. He wants to just fast-forward, or eject the tape and throw it out of the window, but he can't. It's strange, but Dean just can't bring himself to stop listening.

_Don't it feel right like this?  
All the pieces fall to his wish,  
"Sucker for that quick reward, boy,  
Sucker for that quick reward," they say_

_That's it._ Dean angrily jabs the 'eject' button on the tape player, and the tune cuts out in the middle of the chorus. The tape is thrown into the back of the car, and Dean drives on, Azazel's words and the lyrics of the song twisting themselves about in his head.  
_Are you sure what you brought back was one hundred percent Sammy?  
"__Sucker for that quick reward, boy, sucker for that quick reward."_

Sam can't help but think, _that was strange. _

Later that night, Dean is driving again, and Sammy is asleep in the passenger's seat. They have a job, hunting down the murderer of people on a run-down property in Random Small Town Number God Only Knows What.  
_Damn, I'm cynical. Need some better music to cheer me up.  
_Dean selects another tape, and _Highway to Hell_ greets him. _Yeah. This is more like it. _

Ten seconds later, another tape joins the first in the back of the car.


	2. Tuesday

**TUESDAY  
**T-140 hours

They're driving. Again.

Sam's driving this time. Bored, and worried about running across another song that's just going to annoy Dean because it makes him think about what he's doing, he flicks across radio channels, until he finds one that isn't full of static. _Oh joy.  
_It's the local emo-pop station. Sam rolls his eyes, but there's not much else to listen to. _Why not? _

_We're falling,  
Throughout eternity,  
The clock is ticking,  
And you're still counting sheep,  
Heh, you're still half asleep_

_There's no one coming,  
And there's no way out,  
I've been falling,  
And it's so far down..._

_Shrouded,  
Beneath the veil of tragedy,  
When death comes calling,  
Who will you believe?  
Tell me, who will you believe?  
When it's down to you and me,  
Will you still stay on your knees?_

_Sam fights an impulse to dismiss this song as 'crap' and find another station. If he could just get Dean to wake up...  
But there's no use. Even over the song, he can hear Dean snoring. Dean's past half-asleep._

_There's no one coming,  
And there's no way out..._

_There's no way out...  
No way out..._

_Pushing me down, breaking me down,  
There's always something,  
Pushing me down, breaking me down,  
Pushing me down, breaking me down,  
There's always something,  
Pushing me down, breaking me down,  
Pushing me down, breaking me down,  
There's always something,  
Pushing me down, breaking me down,  
Pushing you down, breaking you down,  
There's always something,  
Pushing you back, pushing you back,  
I'm pushing you back, I'm pushing you back,  
I'm pushing you back, I'm pushing you back,  
I'm pushing you back, I'm pushing you back,_

_There's no one coming,  
And there's no way out,  
Well I've been falling,  
And it's a long way down..._

Dean wakes up as the second part of the song begins, but he stays with his head resting against the window. He tries to not listen, but again, none of his ignoring-everything-around-me-because-I-don't-care techniques are working.  
_Never letting Sammy pick the music again.  
_He tries to fall asleep again, and only does after another five hundred miles.


	3. Wednesday

**WEDNESDAY  
**T - 118 hours

Dean's getting sick of this.  
Every song that he listens to, it gets to him somehow. He listens to _The Unforgiven_ while waiting for Sam to return from a trip to the bathroom, and when Sam comes back he knows that Dean doesn't have a sore throat from having been screaming in agony last night while a ghostly executioner tortured him in a run-down barn. It only takes the light glinting on a trail of dampness down Dean's cheek to tell him the whole story.

Sam's never liked _The Unforgiven_. It used to make him wonder _if being normal is like that, is it worth it? _He knows it never would have been. Normal would never have been feeling the thrill of primal fear as he creeps through a dank forest, hunting a Wendigo with Dean at his side - but he won't be there for much longer.  
_Maybe if I was normal, this never would have happened.  
__But if you were normal, Dean would have died a long time ago.  
_The argument can never be resolved. Sam wonders if he's going crazy, arguing with himself all the time. The next song doesn't help the dismal mood of the day. Neither does the rain. It was hot and dry; now it's hot and humid, and the sky isn't full of great big black clouds announcing a thunderstorm's dramatic entrance. If there was a thunderstorm, Sam could let the rain go. But instead it's just raining on a hot day, and Sam's sick of it.

_What I've felt, what I've known  
Never shined through in what I've shown,  
__Never be, never see,  
__Never see what might have been,_

_What I've felt, what I've known,  
__Never shined through in what I've shown,  
__Never free, never me,  
__So I dub thee Unforgiven_

The song is cut off, and Dean can be heard swearing under his breath as another tape joins the duo in the back of the car.

Sam almost snorts, but he knows that Dean's mood has been getting progressively fouler _as it draws to a close_ as the week wears on. Snorting, as if to show that the situation is funny, would probably result in a black eye. Still, Sam can't resist a tiny jab at his brother.  
_If this keeps up, he won't have a tape collection anymore. _


	4. Thursday

**THURSDAY  
**T - 94 hours

Today, perhaps, there will be nothing.

Bobby's house provides distractions, but Dean can't escape the sad but tired look that Bobby gives him whenever he can. It's the old man's way of saying, _Well, this is it. Have fun in Hell Dean, you've been dying to go there.  
_He uses the car as a way of getting out of the house. Hours upon hours, he tries to find as many things wrong as he can. The wheels need aligning. The exhaust sounds funny. The alternator is acting up. The radio isn't working not in the way he'd like.  
He even uses his most pathetic excuse possible. The car _smells_.

But it all adds up to nothing when Sam mutters, "Dean, I can call a mechanic you know. I'm not an idiot."  
Dean, for the first time in nearly two years, has to fight the insane impulse to punch Sam in the face. Not because of the car, because _he's talking about what's happening on Monday_ and Dean doesn't want to know. He's had enough. _It_ happens, in four days, and that's it. End of story.

He finds the iPod that Sam got him for his last birthday of his whole life, and joy of joys - all his music is there. It's just low on battery, battered and scratched because it's been sitting in the very bottom of his bag. Dean remembers that Sam has iTunes on his laptop, and he deletes all the song that have pissed him off so far. _No Leaf Clover. Highway to Hell. The Unforgiven. The Unforgiven II._ Dean deletes all the other that he thinks might annoy him. _The Memory Remains. Fade to Black. Sad But True. Back in Black._ He finds a band he's not yet listened to, in Sam's iTunes library...actually, he finds a few.  
_Covenant. Hmm._  
It takes him all of ten seconds to give up on them.  
_Cold Chisel. Okay then.  
__Khe Sanh_ makes him a little happier. _Cheap Wine_ really gets his mood up, and Sam looks at him strangely all day because he's humming _Shipping Steel_ instead of his usual _Some Kind of Monster_. Cold Chisel are _good_. Any song that can cheer him up right now is good.  
He finds a whole lot more, too. Deep Purple and Rob Zombie and the only stuff he skips over is the techno.  
_Techno. That's even worse than emo-pop.  
_"You listen to techno?"  
Sam frowns a little. "What's wrong with techno? It's still music."  
Dean shakes his head, and mutters 'at least it's not emo-pop', before speaking his mind. "Where'd you get that Cold Chisel stuff? It's good."  
"Internet."  
Sam follows up with some terminology that Dean hasn't heard - stuff about 'torrents' and 'Mininova', 'peers' and 'seeds' and 'uTorrent' - but it doesn't take long for him to pick it all up. You download a torrent from a website - making sure that it has a heap of seeds and peers so it downloads fast - then you add it on uTorrent and you wait.  
Dean's happy with this, because Sam's got all of the Cold Chisel, and the Rob Zombie, and the Deep Purple. But the music manages to get him again. More than once.

_Blacken the sun!  
What have I done?  
I feel so bad I feel so numb yeah!  
Blacken the sun!  
What have I done?  
I feel so good I feel so numb yeah!  
Where do I run?  
What have I done?  
I feel so bad I feel so numb yeah!  
Where do I run?  
What have I done?  
I feel so good I feel so numb yeah!_

_Feel So Numb_ automatically loses its place on the iPod.  
Cold Chisel manages to lose a song too, when he realizes that he's crying in the middle of _When the War is Over. _

_You and I we used each other's shoulder  
Still so young but somehow so much older  
How can I go home and not get  
Blown away_

_You and I had our sights set  
On something  
Hope this doesn't mean our days are numbered  
I got plans for more than a wanted man  
All around this chaos and madness  
Can't help feeling nothing more than sadness  
Only choice to face it the best I can_

_Flame Trees_ is going to go as well. Dean's down to about a hundred songs now.

_Oh the flame trees will blind the weary driver  
And there's nothing else could set fire to this town  
There's no change, there's no pace  
Everything within its place  
Just makes it harder to believe that she won't be around_

_But who needs that sentimental bullshit, anyway  
Takes more than just a memory to make me cry  
I'm happy just to sit here round a table with old friends  
And see which one of us can tell the biggest lies_

He forgets about the 'stop' button, and keeps on listening to the song, until it's over.

_Do you remember, nothing stopped us on the field  
In our day  
Oh the flame trees will blind the weary driver  
And there's nothing else could set fire to this town  
There's no change, there's no pace  
Everything within its place  
Just makes it harder to believe that she won't be around_

_Oh the flame trees will blind the weary driver  
And there's nothing else could set fire to this town  
There's no change, there's no pace  
Everything within its place  
Just makes it harder to believe that she won't be around_

Sam can recognize the tune, even though Dean's got the volume on the headphones turned down. He smiles grimly. That song is a different memory for him; one of a girl named Jessica and a town called Palo Alto, where everything he'd tried to turn his back on had forced him to accept it again.  
_But you could never be normal again, not now.  
_He bites his lip, and goes back to reading. _Maybe the next book. Or the next one. Or the tenth one, the thousandth one... _


	5. Friday

**FRIDAY**

T - 70 hours

They've stopped driving for a while.

Ellen's new roadhouse is still only half-built - it's now on the other side of the road, and the blackened ruins of the old building are fenced off, with iron - but there's still plenty of people there. Sam and Dean get a few odd looks, and a few nasty looks, as they enter, but Ellen's kind enough to just serve them and not ask questions. Dean notices that they get three more beers than they've paid for. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ellen simply mutters, "Looks like Gordon's let up on you two."  
Dean sees the vampire hunter across the other side of the room. He's minus an eye and half of two fingers now, and the other hand's bandaged up.  
"Run in with a werewolf. The eye and the fingers were from a flame spirit." Ellen's explanation is enough for him. Dean doesn't have a grudge against Gordon anymore; there's no point, seeing as he'll be dead in a very short while.  
Sam's wary of Gordon. He's tried to kill Sam before, and - having been dead once - he doesn't want to repeat the experience. Sam briefly considers the gun tucked into his jacket, but that would draw attention. He doesn't need any more enemies.  
A song crackles to life on the jukebox. Led Zeppelin. Dean smiles, but only a little. This is more like it. Then the smile vanishes. _Not this song..._

_In my time of dying, want nobody to mourn  
All I want for you to do is take my body home_

_Well, well, well, so I can die easy  
Well, well, well, so I can die easy_

_Oh, Saint Peter, at the gates of heaven,  
Won't you let me in?  
I never did no harm,  
I never did no wrong,_

Sam wouldn't have taken any notice, if Dean hadn't grimaced just that little bit.

_I've only been this young once,  
I never thought I'd do anybody no wrong  
No, not once_

_Oh, I did somebody some good,  
Somebody some good...  
Oh, did somebody some good,  
I must have did somebody some good..._

Sam takes the initiative and goes over to change the song. Bon Jovi's _Let It Rock_ rings out, but he knows Dean's not listening.


	6. Saturday

**A/N:** Sorry for the upload issue! I could swear I fixed this...

* * *

**SATURDAY**

T - 48 hours

There's not much time left now.

Dean can hear the hellhounds if he listens hard enough. Right on the very edge of his vision, he can see the fire and sulfur waiting for him. He doesn't sleep anymore.

They found a hunt while they were at Bobby's - a Wendigo in a national park in Oregon. They're at the closest town, and they're in the library. Dean browses the books while Sam scours the newspapers.

Dean's not one for reading a lot - books take too long, and he can never find anything that interests him. He'll read anthologies of folklore, and stuff like Anne Rice, Bram Stokes and the Brothers Grimm, but only for research. Sometimes an author does actually manage to get their mythology right, but otherwise it's kinda scary how the general population is misled. Some author said that a vampire could be killed by sunlight. Wrong. They couldn't be killed with holy water, garlic, wooden stakes or silver either. But everyone seemed to think so, thanks to the authors. The only thing they got right was that werewolves can be killed with silver.

The only book Dean's ever read seriously was Stephen King's IT. The movie of it was what made Sam afraid of clowns, if he can remember rightly. Sam tries to deny it - he says that fear of clowns is a metaphorical thing - but Dean still smiles when he remembers how Sammy screamed and ran and wouldn't watch the rest of it with him. He got into a lot of trouble with Dad for scaring Sam, but it was worth it.

Some people would think that all the things he and Sam had done to each other over the years - the Nair incident, IT, all of their prank wars, the itching powder in Sam's underwear, the superglue on Dean's beer bottle - was cruelty. But Dean knew better; it was their way of keeping things fun. Everyone needed to laugh once in a while, and even though it wasn't that nice to laugh at someone else's misfortune, it was still funny. Dad had always turned a blind eye to the prank wars - Dean knew it was valuable training too, in setting traps, stealth and improvisation. He could swear that Dad had muttered, 'it was clever' the last time he'd been punished for a prank - that time for setting up Sam's pen to explode and splatter ink everywhere, in retaliation for Sam defacing his AC/DC T-shirt, because he'd put Nair in Sam's shampoo, because Sam had...Dean had forgotten what the Nair was over now, but he was pretty sure it was something to do with dog poop.

Dean smiled again as he remembered the long history of the prank wars. He didn't know how they started, but he knew that they'd ended two months ago, when the fun had finally died.

Sam hurries over with a notepad and a notice that he's found something, yes it's a Wendigo, no it's not far away, yes I'm sure it's a Wendigo, can we please go and waste it now? Dean's a little surprised at Sam's eagerness to go out and hunt - any other day, he'd want to hang back for another few days, make sure all their facts are right, and then go and hunt - but then he remembers. _Another 48 hours._

As they return to the motel, Sam chooses one of his own tapes. Covenant.

_Invisible and Silent_ pours from the speakers, and Sam wonders what made him put that as the first track on the only tape that he truly likes.

I'm tricked by your smile,

Want to be forgiven,

Waiting for the battle,

Aching for belief

But your answer is wrong

And my spirit is broken

Like choirs in the winter

Singing out of key

_I'm sorry Dean,_ he thinks. _I can't forgive you. What is dead should stay dead, and I should have. It was my time to die, and you should've remembered that. _

_But he always tried to protect you. He failed, and he tried to fix it. _

_'It was all I could think of.' _

_'If I died, what would you do?' _

Sam shoots a surreptitious glance at his brother. Dean has never looked better - at least, he's not looking as bad as Sam.

I am silent

Invisible to you

While I count the days gone by

I am silent

Invisible to you

While I shape the things to come

I try so hard

To fight for an illusion

Holding my breath

Biting my tongue

I try to cope

So give me a reason

I'm waiting for help

I'm trapped by my guilt

Want to be forgotten

Tired of the noise

Aching for relief

Dean can hear the song over his own music. _Turn it down, Sam,_ he would normally say. _I have a headache. _

_It's a crappy song. _

_I hate techno. _

Any of his pathetic, lame-ass excuses to not listen to something.

_At least you're not still pissed off at me. I just wish you could've seen it the way I did. _

But your anger is gone

And my silence is golden

Like fires on the water

Drifting out of reach

Dean flicks his thumb once around the little circular control thing of the iPod, and the volume jumps high enough that he can only hear guitar and drums and bass and James Hetfield singing of the monster within.

Thankfully, Dean has his iPod up so loud that Sam can hear Some Kind of Monster over his own music. Sam fast-forwards the tape, and when he hits the play button he is greeted by Rising Sun.

_Much better. _


	7. Sunday

**SUNDAY  
**T - 18 hours

_18 hours left.  
_Dean's been counting. He knows.

They're sitting, in a tent, up in the forest. It's dark. Sam's asleep, curled up because he's too tall for the tent, and that's how he sleeps all the time anyway. Dean's awake, staring out of the tent flap at a full moon rising. It's not quite white yet - sort of a faint yellow-orange tinge, like the sunset a few states over hasn't quite faded out yet, and it's reflecting onto the moon.  
There's a soft rustle as wind passes through the bushes, and Dean's hand strays towards a flare gun on the blanket beside him. The rustling dies down, but he slowly picks it up, and with the flare gun resting on his lap Dean feels much safer.  
In a strange, roundabout sort of way. He feels safe because he can waste the Wendigo if it turns up, but not so safe because a flare gun will do jack shit against a hellhound. And a flare gun's worse than nothing against a demon.  
He doesn't listen to his music. Music distracts him too much.

Sam's headphones are in, and he's not sleeping. He pretends to though, but truthfully? He's too exhausted and afraid to sleep. The long hike has really taken it out of him; he's so tired he feels sick. The shaking only died down a little while ago, and he's thankful that Dean didn't see how run-down he was. He wants to skip this song, but he's too tired to reach down and switch off the key lock, and press 'skip'.

Dean remembers the one thing he did want to do tonight. He turns around, to rummage in his bag, and find a torch, a pen, an old schoolbook with the pages he'd written on torn out, and an envelope. Leaning the book on the ground, he begins to write, pausing every now and then to adjust the torch or look around.

Sam can't hear the scratching of pen on paper over his music, but he can feel hot tears running from his eyes as the song progresses.

_I'm writing a letter to say,  
That I'm leaving you, leaving you,  
It's always been hard to maintain,  
No one believed when they needed to,  
Well sometimes, some things, are better left alone_

_And when the seasons change,  
The sun may shine but the darkness will remain,  
And should my reasons sway,  
They'll bury me with no name_

Dean screws up another page. He doesn't know what to write, how to tell Sammy _I'm sorry_ but I had to do this, and he's never been any good at all that sentimental crap. It'd be so much easier to just say it, but Sam's asleep and Dean likes it better that way. That way he doesn't have to hear what Sam will say when he's finished with his big long speech about why he made the deal. Actually, it won't be that long. _Okay. Writing my last letter ever - take four. _

Sam -  
By the time you read this, I'll be dead. I'm not gonna sugar-coat it - it's the truth, and we both know it.  
I'm sorry for doing this to you, but I had to. It's not something I know how to put into words, and that's not the point here anyway.  
I'm leaving a few things behind for you - I hope you find some use for them. You can sell the rest - heck, I don't really care. Just - keep hunting, okay? 

He has to stop there, and think, and put the pen down to scrub a tear away before it falls onto the page. As soon as the tears stop, he picks up the pen and keeps writing. It's nearly dawn when he's finished.

Sam shifts, trying to hide the tears in case Dean's watching. He fights an urge to sniff, as the song continues to swirl through his headphones and brand itself on his brain.

_I've still got the picture you framed,  
There's only memories, memories,  
I'm finding it hard to explain,  
I don't feel anything, anything,  
Well sometimes, some things, are better left alone_

_And when the seasons change,  
The sun may shine but the darkness will remain,  
And should my reasons sway,  
They'll bury me with no name_

I know you probably won't want to - too many memories - but that's all I can ask for. If you want to be normal, then that's okay, but at least try to remember me once in a while, okay? I don't mean name one of your kids after me or something - that'd be pretty cool, but you don't have to - but at least go on a hunt once in a while. Teach your kids (if you ever have any) about the supernatural. Make sure they at least know how to defend themselves.  
Don't give up on life - and if you dare even think about suicide, I'll come back from Hell just to kick your ass. Find a girl, settle down, do whatever, just try to stay alive okay? Don't forget the salt lines and holy water either.  
Oh, by the way, can you do a favor for me? Leave Hendrickson an anonymous letter and tell him that I'm dead, so he can go and get some therapy now. He could use it. Take care of the Impala - put a CD player in if you want, I was meaning to but I kept forgetting - and take care of yourself too. These last couple of weeks, you've been looking like death warmed over.  
Lastly, don't do anything stupid. Don't try to sell your own soul to get me out - I don't want you to. I don't think you can anyway, but I'm working on something - I'd tell you, but I don't have the space.  
Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Stay out of New Orleans, we're still in trouble there. Tell Bobby and Ellen thanks for all the help, and tell Gordon sorry about the whole putting-him-in-prison thing, but he was trying to kill me. You know, eye for an eye and all that.  
One more thing - head back to Cicero and tell Lisa and Ben what happened. I've left a couple of things for Ben. Under the back seat of the car, brown paper package. Tell him he's not to open it until he's fifteen. If he asks why, say that I didn't tell you. It's a few things that might come in handy some time. Or maybe not. I don't really know, and I don't really care.  
I can't think of anything else, and writing by torchlight's giving me a headache, so...see you in some other lifetime. I know you're gonna miss me.  
Don't you dare salt and burn my body. I'll find somewhere to hide just so you can't.  
Keep fighting the good fight.  
Dean  
PS: I hope the necklace brings you more luck than it brought me. 

_I was reminded of you today,  
So I've written this out to say,  
That sometimes, some things, are better left alone_

_And when the seasons change,  
The sun may shine but the darkness will remain,  
And should my reasons sway,  
They'll bury me with no name_

He folds the letter, and slides it into the envelope. Reaching into his pocket, he adds the Impala's keys, and then the necklace he's been wearing since Sam bought it for his twelfth birthday. A brass ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life. _That should come in handy_. He peels the strip of paper off the sticky part of the envelope, folds the top over, then tucks it into Sam's bag, and goes out to watch the sunrise.


	8. No More Time

**MONDAY  
**T - 5.2 hours

Sam's panicking.  
When he woke up this morning, Dean wasn't in the tent, but his bag was with him. The flare gun was still there too. Sam checked all around the campsite to make sure it wasn't just an early-morning bathroom trip, _but if it was Dean would've taken the flare gun, right?_

Now Sam's tracking him through the brush, following any sign that anything Dean-sized has been around recently. _Here_, some twigs snapped from a bush. _There_, prints that are roughly the size and shape of Dean's hiking boots. _Over there_, threads snagged on rough bark that are just the right color to be from Dean's shirt. Sam's still tired from yesterday, but fear keeps him putting one foot in front of the other.

_The bastard jumped me.  
_Dean's curled awkwardly onto his side in a tiny hollow under some bushes. He can't breathe properly. Every few minutes, he coughs, and bloody saliva splatters onto the dirt. His ribs are being stabbed with knives of white-hot pain, and he has to concentrate to breathe, but it never feels like enough. His lung has collapsed, and he's dying. You can survive for weeks without food. You can survive for a few days without water. You can only survive for a few minutes without oxygen.  
It's strange, dying. At first, it hurts, but after a while, he can't feel the pain anymore. Blood slowly trickles down his side and onto the ground, leaving a dark red trail across his shirt.  
Then, there's a flash of fire, and a woman dressed as a park ranger - Dean vaguely recognizes her as the woman who told him about the bear attacks - steps from behind a tree and storms towards his hiding place.  
"You! We had a deal! Your soul in one year for your brother's life!"  
Dean smiles weakly. It's hard to talk, and he coughs every now and then, but he manages to get his message across. "Can't...take me yet...you said a year...I got five more hours..." Groan, cough, it's getting harder to speak now. "...'m gonna be dead...lot sooner...'n that."  
The woman's eyes turn red as she raises a hand and clenches it into a fist; Dean briefly feels something squeeze his ribs, but then it stops. She looks at him, first confused, then enraged. With another flash of fire, she's gone, and Dean can hear the Wendigo returning. He closes his eyes.  
There is pain.  
Then movement.  
Then nothing.

Something crashes to Sam's right. He brings the flare gun up, backing against a tree. The sound continues, and Sam catches a glimpse of the grey shape dragging another, darker shape behind it.  
The flare hits the Wendigo's heart exactly. It lets out an ear-splitting scream, and falls, the flames quickly consuming the carcass. Sam can feel the heat from the smoldering mass as he runs to it. There's a body, face-down a few inches away. From the short hair, he guesses that it's male. _Please don't be...  
_Cautiously, he turns the body onto its side. His worst fear has been realized, as Dean's pale, bloody face stares back at him, eyes almost closed, and as he tries to find a heartbeat, he knows that there is no hope left. He's so cold, and so pale, but Sam feels a faint pulse against his fingers._ Maybe there's still time...  
_It takes forever, but Dean's eyes open, glassy and unfocused. Blood bubbles from his mouth, and Sam hears him struggle to speak.  
"Sam..." Dean's grip on his wrist is weak, and Sam can see that he's lost a huge amount of blood. He can feel shattered ribs, and there's a joint in Dean's leg where there shouldn't be one. His arm is at a strangle angle, his face bloody and scratched, and Sam can see the inside of Dean's mouth through a torn cheek.  
"Come on Dean, stay with me! Please, just stay with me!"  
Sam tries to be gentle as he lifts Dean up, tries to not touch any of the broken bones, but there's not much he can do. As Sam stumbles back towards where he guesses the camp is, he keeps whispering to Dean, begging him to _just hold on, it's not much further, just hang in there, it's gonna be okay_. But deep down Sam knows that Dean's going to die before they can get any help. He struggles on, ignoring thorns that scratch and the ache in his chest and his legs and his back, and the funny light-headed feeling, and the way his vision is starting to blur at the edges.

They reach a small clearing, and Sam's legs finally give out. He lowers Dean to the ground, shaking with the effort to stay upright, then he collapses, falling to his knees in the leaves and dust. On his elbows and knees, he crawls to Dean, tries to lift him up and hold him, but it's too much. He's so heavy, and Sam feels so tired...  
The last thing he hears before it all goes dark is Dean's last, rattling breath.


	9. Hospital

**WEDNESDAY**

It's two days before a ranger stumbles across the thin, ragged young man collapsed next to his brother's body, in a remote section of the park. He's airlifted to the nearest hospital, and it's determined that he collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition. The doctors estimate that he's been out there for about four days. The coroner decides that the other man died from severe injuries, including a collapsed lung. The ultimate cause of death, however, was massive blood loss.

The man still alive doesn't wake up until Thursday afternoon. Rachel thinks he looks cute now that he's been cleaned up. He's tall, so thin that she can see nearly all of his bones, but he still looks cute. She sees his eyelid twitch, then one eye opens. He has hazel eyes. Beautiful, intense hazel eyes.  
"Wh...wha' happened?"  
She doesn't know what to say, but she tries to keep it simple. 'Be careful. Don't tell him about the death. It's vital that we keep him psychologically stable.' That's what the head nurse said. "You collapsed. One of the rangers found you and had you airlifted here."  
He blinks, sleepy, then continues, in a grating, emotionless voice. "Where's Dean?"  
"Was Dean the man with you?"  
"Mhm. My brother."  
Rachel takes a deep breath. _Sometimes, I hate this job, I really do._ "I'm sorry. Your brother died from his injuries."  
The silence stretches out. One minute, two...five...twenty...an hour...

A police officer comes in to 'ask a few questions'. Rachel tries to explain. "I'm sorry, ma'am, he's not in any condition to speak right now. He's still in shock, and he hasn't spoken since this morning."  
A black man appears behind the woman and flashes an FBI badge. "Agent Hendrickson, FBI. If you don't let us in to question this man, I'll have you arrested for obstructing justice."  
Rachel grits her teeth and steps aside, but remains by the door. She feels sorry for Sam; she lost Kiri when she was young, and it was a long time before she could move on with her life._ It's not right that this man should be interrogating him when he's just lost someone._ It's clear that he loved Dean, and she knows that it's rare for siblings to be so close these days. Agent Hendrickson pulls up a chair at the man's bedside, and the woman stands behind him. Rachel has to count slowly to twenty, and repeat a mantra in her head. _You do not punch cops, you do not punch cops...  
_"So, Sam. It's been a while. You finally offed Dean, huh?"  
Rachel jumps when Sam finally speaks. His voice still has that flat, unemotional tone to it, the voice of someone who has been through too much. So much that they can't feel any more. He makes her thinks of the old Jewish man who came to her high school one day to talk about the Holocaust. She can remember that his eyes were unnaturally intense, as if suffering had brightened the color in them. _Just like Sam's. Refugee eyes, that's what our photography teacher called them. _

"Aren't you happy that Dean's dead? He said to tell you, you should get some therapy now, coz you need it."  
The female cop speaks up. "And where did he say this?"  
"The letter. In my bag. At the campsite. It's from Dean."  
"Do you mean this letter?" Hendrickson shows Sam a plastic bag with an envelope in it. He has a photocopy of a page with handwriting on it in his other hand. "'Sam - By the time you read this, I'll be dead. I'm not gonna sugar-coat it - it's the truth, and we both know it. I'm sorry for doing this to you, but I had to. Still don't know why, and I guess I never will. I'm leaving a few things behind for you - I hope you find some use for them. You can sell the rest - heck, I don't really care. Just - keep hunting, okay? I know you probably won't want to - too many memories - but that's all I can ask for. If you want to be normal, then that's okay, but at least try to remember me once in a while, okay? I don't mean name one of your kids after me or something - that'd be pretty cool, but you don't have to - but at least go on a hunt once in a while. Don't give up on life - and if you dare even think about suicide, I'll come back from Hell just to kick your ass. Find a girl, settle down, do whatever, just try to stay alive okay? Don't forget the salt lines and holy water either. Oh, by the way, can you do a favor for me? Leave Hendrickson an anonymous letter and tell him that I'm dead, so he can go and get some therapy now. He could use it. Take care of the Impala - put a CD player in if you want, I was meaning to but I kept forgetting - and take care of yourself too. These last couple of weeks, you've been looking like death warmed over. Lastly, don't do anything stupid. Don't try to sell your own soul to get me out - I don't want you to. I don't think you can anyway, but I'm working on something - I'd tell you, but I don't have the space. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Stay out of New Orleans, we're still in trouble there. Tell Bobby and Ellen thanks for all the help, and tell Gordon sorry about the whole putting-him-in-prison thing, but he was trying to kill me. You know, eye for an eye and all that. One more thing - head back to Cicero and tell Lisa and Ben what happened. I've left a couple of things for Ben. Under the back seat of the car, brown paper package. Tell him he's not to open it until he's fifteen. If he asks why, say that I didn't tell you. It's a few things that might come in handy some time. Or maybe not. I don't really know, and I don't really care. I can't think of anything else, and writing by torchlight's giving me a headache, so see you in some other lifetime. I know you're gonna miss me. Don't you dare salt and burn my body. I'll find somewhere to hide just so you can't. Keep fighting the good fight. Dean. PS, I hope the necklace brings you more luck than it brought me.' That's one strange deathbed monologue, if you ask me."  
Sam is silent through the entire reading of the letter. He doesn't make any comments.  
"So what's the significance of these? They were in the envelope." The woman is holding up two more plastic bags, one with car keys inside it and the other containing a necklace with a brass Egyptian pendant on it - Rachel recognizes the symbol, it's an ankh. She has one at home, a silver one on a chain.  
"The Impala keys and Dean's necklace." Sam doesn't go on. Rachel wants to go over there and hug him and say, _It's okay. You can cry now.  
_"We know what they are. What's their significance?"  
Rachel wants to strangle the woman for being so callous. She wants to scream, _Can't you see he's in pain? His brother just died! Leave him to mourn in peace!  
_"They were Dean's."  
"So he leaves you a car and a necklace? That's not much."  
Sam smiles, just a little, but there's no happiness in it. "He knew I always wanted that car, and he thought the necklace would remind me of him."  
"Who are Bobby and Ellen?"  
"Friends."  
"Who's Gordon? Does he mean Gordon Walker?"  
"Mhm. He tried to kill me'n Dean, ages ago."  
"Who are Lisa and Ben?"  
"Friends."  
Sam doesn't tell them much. Rachel thinks that Lisa and Ben might be a girlfriend and a son, or an adopted son, but she doesn't say so in case she's right. _Don't give up your secrets, Sam. These dickheads don't deserve them.  
_"What's in the package in the car?"  
"I dunno."  
"What does he mean by 'Don't you dare salt and burn my body'?"  
Silence.  
The questions keep coming, but the silence continues. When the cops finally leave, Rachel goes over and hugs Sam. Her shift change is in five minutes, and she should be getting ready to go home, but she stays with him until the head nurse tells her to get moving.

As she drives home that night, all she can think of is how cruel those cops were. How they couldn't even let an exhausted, grieving man recover in peace, they had to interrogate him for two hours and she could see the pain and hurt in his eyes.  
When she gets home, she cries herself to sleep thinking about it.

**

* * *

**

**THURSDAY**

The next day, it's Lorraine's shift in ICU. As soon as she sees the worn young man in a critical but stable condition, her maternal instincts flare up. She just wants to go over there and hug him and soothe away his pain. He looks like ten-year-old Michael after their cat died.  
An older female police officer comes in to 'ask a few questions of Mr. Winchester'. Lorraine and Constable Miller are close friends, and Lorraine knows that Betty is kinder than most. She pulls a chair close to the boy's bed and begins asking questions, in a hushed but kind voice.  
"Sam, what happened to you?"  
No answer. _I remember now...Rachel said he won't talk anymore. Reckons he's gone totally catatonic. Don't blame him, considering that his brother died in his arms. Poor kid...I don't believe that he's a murderer. A murderer wouldn't be in this much emotional torment.  
_"Sam? Can you answer me?"  
Still silence.  
"Sam, I need you to tell me what happened."  
Silence.  
"Sam, did you attack your brother?"  
Shake. A universal gesture for _no_.  
"Did he attack you?"  
_no.  
_"Sam, was Dean attacked by anyone?"  
A sprt-of nod. _Yes, but not quite. Rephrase the question_.  
"Did some_thing_ attack Dean?"  
Vigorous nod. _Yes.  
_"Was it the bear?"  
_no  
_"What was it?"

Lorraine could've told her. _Honey, you'll only get yes or no answers from this kid. His talking days are over. _

**

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**

**A/N:** I decided to merge these two chapters because of the shortness of the second one. Sorry if it creates any problems with reviews or anything.


	10. Six Years On

**WEDNESDAY  
**6 years on

Sam lives with a carer now. She's the nurse that first took care of him when he woke up. Her name is Rachel Simons and she's nice. She's pretty too, with strawberry-blonde hair and big blue-grey eyes. But their relationship is strictly carer-patient.  
Not that it matters to Sam anymore.

He was deemed too lucid for a mental facility, but not lucid enough to return to society. Sam can't remember the last time he's spoken, or made any noise at all. Rachel only asks 'yes or no' questions, and he can answer them without speaking. She's trying to teach him sign language, but all the complex gestures are beyond him.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees Dean, reflected in a mirror or a window, and that's when he retreats to the room he shares with Rachel and cries. Rachel's really only there to make sure he's okay. Sam takes care of himself, largely, although it takes Rachel to persuade him to do things beyond read, and write, and listen to music, and cry.

When Sam sees Dean four times in one day, he writes a note to Rachel. They can communicate in writing, but it's hard to make himself do it. It gets easier as he writes, though, so they use the notebook to carry on conversations beyond 'yes or no'.  
I think I'm going crazy. I saw him.  
_You saw who?  
_Dean. But he's dead.  
_Maybe he's a ghost.  
_He always said he'd never leave me behind  
_Sometimes people we love come back to us. It sounds like you and Dean were very close.  
_He saved my life more times than I can count and I never once said thanks  
_But he knew you were grateful, didn't he?  
_I left for Stanford and I never even said goodbye  
_Sometimes when we're angry, we do stupid things. But if you feel guilty afterwards, it's as good as saying sorry.  
_He called me heaps and tried to see if I was okay, and all that time I tried to forget him and Dad and hunting  
_Tell me about hunting.  
_Sam finds it hard to write, but he has to. It's so hard...easier to say it...**say it.  
**Sam looks around, quickly. _Dean?  
_**I'm here.  
**_Go away! I'm not crazy, I'm not, I'm not!  
_**You're not crazy Sam. It's me. I got out. But now I can't find my body. What happened to it?  
**_The morgue.  
_**Great. I hate morgues. They freeze you. I don't wanna wake up frozen.  
**_Shut up! I'm not crazy!  
_Sam looks at the window and sees the reflection of Dean roll its eyes, and put its head back in the way Dean used to do when he was frustrated by Sam. He hears Dean's exasperate sigh, and he can see the reflection's lips moving in time to the words he hears in his mind. **Sam. You're not crazy. I just told** **you, I got out of Hell. Miss me?  
**_I did. But how?  
_**Red-eyes never said I had to stay there, did she?  
**_You're unbelievable.  
_**Yeah, that's about right.  
**_But I thought you couldn't escape from Hell.  
_**Apparently my soul's too good for Hell, but not good enough for Heaven. So I get to come back here and try and do one more good deed so I can get through the Pearly Gates...it's just that I kinda need my body back. So...the morgue huh? Which one?  
**_I don't know. _

"Sam?"  
Sam snaps out of his trance. Rachel's seen him do it a lot now; he'll sit and stare at a window, or a mirror, or any shiny surface, for hours and hours on end, as if fascinated. She's not sure whether it's part of his condition, or just something new. Maybe it has to do with seeing his dead brother everywhere.  
She feels a little happier when Sam picks up his pen and writes again. His handwriting is beautiful, and he handles a fountain pen easily. She never got why he loved fountain pens, but calligraphy gave him a distraction. He draws with graphic pens, and his artwork is incredible. He draws a lot of pictures of the same thing - all a variant on himself and Dean, or himself, one or two other people, and Dean. Sometimes, he draws strange creatures, and other times he draws the interior of buildings - 'The Roadhouse', 'Bobby's Yard', 'Bobby's House', 'Our Old House' - but mostly, it's himself and Dean.

It's hard to say it in words.  
_You could say it another way. _

A mute shake of the head, then a slight pause. He opens his mouth as if about to speak, and Rachel tenses. This is it. Glory, glory, Hallelujah, he's finally going to speak! Praise be to all higher beings! He's going to talk!  
But he's done this a thousand times over the six years since the hospital, and each time he disappoints her by shaking his head more vigorously. Hunting is a subject they always come back to, but he won't talk about it. She writes, feeling a little stupid for writing in her plain print next to Sam's beautiful cursive. _Too many memories, huh? _

Sam swallows hard when he hears Dean's voice again.  
**Aw, come on Sam, I hate chick flick moments!  
**_I thought you were looking for you body.  
_**Dude, I'm stuck in a ten-mile radius. I can't even get out of the city.  
**_What?  
_**You. Every spirit has to have a point that they return to, and they're bound to it. It's usually where they died, or a personal possession, or a place they visited a lot...sometimes, it's also a family member or a close friend. In my case, it's you. I can only go about ten miles away, then I have to come back.  
**_Why do you have to?  
_**I dunno. I just can't go any further away. **

Rachel then smiles and draws half of a triangle. Sam adds a curve. She adds a line. Sam adds a dot. In the end, it becomes a dog.  
This is another of their strange little games. It's like playing Pictionary, but you have to guess what the person's going to draw rather than what they have drawn. It's one of the times that she tries to forget that Sam is catatonic and still distraught over his dead brother, and that this job is _so fucked up_ in that she can't do anything beyond try to make sure he's okay. She keeps their little games and their conversations a secret from Sam's doctor - all he knows is that Sam writes in a little blue book that the hospital gave him to keep track of his state of mind.

Tomorrow is the seven-year anniversary of when Sam stopped talking. _Maybe it'll be tomorrow.  
__Or Friday. Or Saturday. Or the next day, or the next. _


	11. Surrealism

**A/N:** Slight reference to another fic here, I've forgotten the title and author, but it was cute. I could completely imagine Sam having an aissgnment on heroes and deciding to write about Dean.

**

* * *

**

**THURSDAY**

It's now seven years since Sam has spoken a word. Rachel tries, every few days, to get him to talk. She thinks that maybe today is the day. Rachel thinks it's her intuition telling her this.

When she wakes up, the morning sun is shining and a few rays fall across Sam, making him seem to glow. She thinks that for a moment, she catches a glimpse of movement in the mirror, but when she looks, it's gone.  
When she goes down to the kitchen, there's a man already there. He's looking up at the ceiling - if he had X-ray vision, he'd be looking straight at Sam. He's tallish, but shorter than Sam, with the same hair (but the man's is short - Sam's is on the short side of medium-length) and the same intensely hazel eyes. At this angle, his eyes look green, but as she moves towards him, they shift to brown.  
"Thanks for taking care of Sammy."  
His voice sounds like she's always imagined Sam's to sound, but deeper and a little raspier.  
"By the way, my name's Dean."  
She backs up. "You - you can't - you're-"  
"Dead?" He snorts, and continues with a smirk on his face. "I was, but I'm back now, and I really, really, need to get hold of my body."  
"W-why?"  
"Coz. I gotta do one good deed to get past the Pearly Gates. Otherwise I'm trapped on this earth for eternity. Apparently I'm too good for Hell but not good enough for Heaven."  
"Sounds...awkward..."  
She's surprised at how calm she is, and how calm the ghost is. He looks solid.  
"So yeah, anyway, can you wake Sam up? He thinks...ah, nevermind, I'll do it." When he brushes past her to the stairs, she realizes that he is solid, but he's cold. Cold as cold can be. So cold that by just brushing against her elbow, he turns her entire arm numb. She tries to rub the feeling back into it, and resorts to running her arm under the hot tap to get the warmth back.  
Then she remembers where he went, and she rushes up the stairs, to see him bending over Sam's bed. She hears him murmur, "Wake up, Sammy. I'm back."

Sam's dreaming.  
_He's standing in front of the house in Lawrence, just as it was when they last saw it. Mom and Dad are standing in the front yard, arms around each other, and he's standing on the other side of the road. Dean's leaning on the fence.  
__But a few things have changed about the house. Sam can see a shotgun by the door, and salt lines across the driveway and around the house. There's a devil's trap formed by hedges in the garden, and another one hanging on the door. The house of a hunter.  
__Dean turns back from the fence and says, "You know what sucks, Sam? I can't get in there. I just gotta do one good deed...but I need my body. Wake up Sammy. I'm back." _

Sam wakes up, and scrambles backwards against the headboard in surprise. Dean's standing next to his bed, and Rachel's in the doorway.  
"D-Dean?"  
His voice is little more than a croak, hoarse from years of disuse. It's hard to form words, but once he starts, it all comes back to him. Rachel lets out a little squeal of delight, races over and hugs him. Dean vanishes and reappears a little further away from the display of affection. "Whoa! Chick flick moment alert! Can I join in and make it a group hug?"

Sam glares at Dean with one eye while hugging Rachel back. Dean grins, and Sam hears the wolf whistle and Dean's way-too-sexually-explicit comment, which earns him a one-finger salute from his younger brother. Dean is still grinning like a Cheshire cat, as he mutters, "Bitch."  
Sam retorts with, "Jerk."  
Dean's smile fades a little, the amusement replaced by pride. _That's my Sammy. Knew you'd come back in the end. _

Later that day, Rachel and Sam talk, for the first time. Sam's sitting at the kitchen table. He's taken Dean's necklace out of the box under his bed, and he's twirling the pendant absently, watching it spin as the cloth band twists one way, then the other.  
"Did you see him?"  
"Hm?" She's so absorbed in washing the dishes that she barely hears what Sam says.  
"Did you see Dean?"  
For a moment, she contemplates lying, but that wouldn't be fair to him. _If we're insane, then it's a shared delusion._ "Actually I did. He was standing down here this morning. He said thanks for taking care of you, and that he has to do one good deed to get into Heaven. His soul's too good for Hell, but he hasn't done enough good to get into Heaven."  
"So I'm not crazy..." Sam's voice is still raspy, but she knows that given time it'll be the same as it always was.  
Rachel takes a deep breath, and decides, _might as well get to the bottom of the mystery that is Sam Winchester_. "Tell me about hunting. You never told me, all this time."

She can see Sam hesitate and bite his lower lip, in the window's reflection, and she can see Dean in the corner, leaning against the wall. She sees Dean say something, but she can't work out what it is. Rachel never got around to learning to lip-read; she never had to.  
"You know all those stories about people vanishing, and strange deaths?"  
"Yes. There used to be a lot of them."  
"Well, hunters go to those towns, and we look for signs that something supernatural happened there. Sometimes it's simple, like an angry spirit, or a poltergeist. Sometimes it's a lot more serious like a demon, or a shapeshifter. We've even had to deal with curses and Djinns before. They're tough."  
"What's a Djinn?"  
"They're a sort of a twisted version of a genie. They put you into a coma, and feed off you, but the whole time you're living in this dream world, where everything is perfect. A lot of people find it hard to leave, but Dean didn't. His life was perfect in that dream, but it was too perfect. Hunting isn't the greatest lifestyle ever - you stay in cheap motels, you never have a lot of money, and you're forever running away from cops. You can't get close to anyone either, because you'll be moving on in a week, and it's dangerous to get close to people. It's lonely, and it's risky - hospitals sometimes ask the most awkward questions, and sometimes the excuses aren't quite good enough - but it's worth it. If me'n Dean had never been hunters, I don't think we would've been the way we were."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Dean always protected me. Sometimes, I had to protect him too. Dad wasn't around much when I was a kid, so Dean was practically my dad as well. He's saved my life more times than I can remember, and I've saved his life a lot of times as well. Sometimes we don't get along, and there's some things that we'll never agree on, but we were - are - pretty close. I guess it explains why he came back."  
Rachel smiles. "You know what I think? If there were more big brothers like Dean out there, the world would be a lot better place."  
Sam smiles, and it's a genuine smile. She can see how happy he is now. "One of my teachers said that once too. We had to do an assignment on heroes, and I did mine on Dean. It sounds sappy, but I was seven years old."  
Rachel's smile fades a little as she thinks of Kiri. _I wish we were like that. _

Late in the evening, she sees Dean again, this time while going out to the garage to check on Sam. Sam's doing something under the hood of the Impala, and Dean's watching over his shoulder, muttering instructions every now and then. Both of them look up as soon as she comes in.  
Rachel pauses, and considers backing off. Maybe fixing the car is one of those family rituals to them. She doesn't want to interrupt them in a private moment.  
Sam takes little notice of her, and goes back to whatever he was doing. Dean tells him something - his voice is too low for her to hear - then he moves across the garage to her.  
There's no other word for it - he seems to blur, and one second he's all the way over _there_, and then he's _here_, right in front of her. "I can't believe how good a condition she's in. She's even better than when I last drove her."  
"Sam's been working on her since...oh, about two years ago. He gets an allowance from the hospital, in case of emergencies. Once, he got a really bad case of food poisoning, and instead of spending the money on a doctor, he spent it on getting some part or other for the car. He's only ever test-driven her around the block to see if she's still running okay after he's been tinkering with the engine."  
"I saw that, it looks like it's been rebuilt."  
"Yeah. It's amazing what you can do when you have a lot of time on your hands. I think he knows that car better than he knows me, sometimes."  
Sam looks up for a second, and glares at Dean. Rachel's confused - _what? What did Dean do wrong?  
_Then she realizes it's because Dean is really _really_ close to her. She can feel the chill coming off him in waves, like dry ice. She backs up a little, goosebumps forming on her bare arms and neck. Dean's still close to her, but not too close for comfort.  
She hears a faint clatter from the back of the garage, and when she looks, Sam has his head down again._ How very odd... _

Later, when Sam slumps in, grimy and greasy and reeking of car-smells, Rachel notes that when he sits down her keeps himself between her and Dean. She doesn't take it as anything too symbolic - he always keeps himself between her and other people. _It's like having a bodyguard, only nicer,_ she muses.

Sam watches Dean like a hawk. Somehow, he feels protective towards Rachel. Rachel's known him for seven years, and he doesn't want Dean too close to her. Sam would instantly deny that he felt anything more than friendship towards her if she asked, but he doesn't deny it to himself - she's kind, and they get along, and he thinks she looks cute in her black leggings and white shirt. She's in the kitchen, making dinner. Dean's nowhere to be seen, but then he's suddenly _there_, right next to Sam. He whistles appreciatively. "Damn, she has a cute ass."  
"_Dean._"  
"What? I'm just saying she has a cute ass."  
Sam glared at him.  
"Oh, I see."  
Sam rolls his eyes.  
"Well, if she's yours, then that's fine Sammy, but wow...you are one sly dog, you know that?"  
Sam tries to punch him in the shoulder, but his hand goes straight through Dean. "Heh, that's the fun thing about being a ghost, I can't get hurt. Noncorporeal."  
"Jerk."  
"Bitch."  
Sam's voice is still scratchy - he's getting used to talking, gradually. It's hard to talk to Rachel, but when he talks to Dean it's like old times - he doesn't even think about it. _I guess talking's like shooting - you get out of practice, but once you get back into it, it all comes back. _


	12. Acclimatization

**A/N:** I had to insert the Alien reference - it was the first horror movie I ever saw and it gave me nightmares for a week. (I was nine years old, gimme a break!)

And yes, this is an edited version. The movie Dean and Sam were watching was _The Ring_ (another favorite of mine). Page six was a reference to...uh...y'know what, never mind.

* * *

**FRIDAY**

"Mmmn..."  
Rachel takes her time getting up. It takes her half an hour just to get out of bed, and she lets the morning pass her by. Sam sleeps in; he sometimes does, but he's usually up by about eleven.  
Yesterday seems unreal. Beyond unreal. Beyond _surreal_, even. As she dresses in a white T-shirt and leggings, she wonders whether it was all a strange dream or not.  
A shadow passes by the mirror, but she doesn't see it.  
On her way downstairs to the kitchen, she notices that the house is unusually cold. A detour to the living room, turn on the heating. _Mmm, nice and warm._  
The notebook in the hall has more writing in it. She pauses to read it.

**Thanks for the pen. - Dean  
Did you find my body yet? - Dean**  
No.**  
Why not?**  
Because.**  
Sam, I really need you to do this for me.**  
I'll try.**  
Ok.**  
Do you think I can trust Rachel?**  
Why are you asking me?**  
Ghosts are telepathic.**  
She seems trustworthy enough.**  
So I should tell her? She keeps asking me about hunting.**  
Then tell her, if she wants to know so much.**

A shiver runs down her spine. _So it was real..._  
There's a clatter from the kitchen, and she races back, but all she finds is an open cupboard door. Someone's been rifling through the cupboards, looking for something. As she closes the doors again, she sees a faint reflection in the window. Squinting, she tries to work out what it is, but it's too blurry.  
Sam chooses that moment to come downstairs. He goes through the usual ritual, but she sees him pause for a second when she sits down across from him with her own breakfast.  
"Morning." It's still a bit of a shock to hear him speak - his voice is still croaky, but she knows that it'll get better over time.  
"Yesterday was strange."  
"It was. I didn't think Dean was going to come back."  
"Is he still here?"  
"I don't know. I think so."  
She spots Dean sneaking up behind Sam, and makes a vague gesture. Sam turns around, and Dean vanishes.  
"What?"  
As soon as Sam turns away, Dean reappears and grabs him by the shoulders. Sam jumps, then rolls his eyes and growls, "Don't do that!"  
"What? Oh, you mean don't scare you this early in the morning. I thought she knew you need caffeine in the morning."  
Rachel swallows her spoonful of cereal. "Doctor's orders. Caffeine seems to contribute to the insomnia."  
"Insomnia, huh?" Dean seems to be thinking. Then he shoves Sam a little. "You know what you need? You need to go hunt. That'll get rid of the insomnia."  
"Nothing around. It's all cleared up."  
"_What?_ You gotta be kidding me."  
"Take a look at the news, nothing that looks even vaguely weird. Except for page six."  
"What about page six?"  
"Look at it." Sam has a vague smile on his face, but it's a mischievous one.  
Dean turns to the page, and skims the article. About halfway down, he pulls a face, and then says, "Dude, that is _wrong_ on too many levels."  
Sam goes back to eating his breakfast. "You're telling me."  
Dean skims the rest of the newspaper, then says, "This is unbelievable. How can there not be…_things_? You know, like freaky disappearances, weird urban myths, there's gotta be _something_! Where's your laptop?"  
Sam's nonchalant as he replies. "Sold it."  
"You _what?_"  
"I sold the laptop."  
"Why?"  
"The Impala needed fixing."  
Dean looked from Sam, to Rachel, then back to Sam. He seemed momentarily in shock. "Why would my car need fixing?"  
Rachel shrugs. "I don't know a lot about cars, but seeing as it was a bit…er…_smashed up_…when Sam found it…" She trails off at Dean's look of shock.  
"My car was _smashed up_?"  
Sam pales a little. "The Impala got stolen while I was in hospital. Whoever stole it managed to roll it down a hill and into a creek. It was pretty bad condition by the time I found it."  
Dean is silent for several seconds then says, "Well…you fixed it, at least. Where'd you learn about all the wiring and stuff though?"  
Sam, who had gotten up to put his plate on the sink, bowed to Dean. "I learned from the best."  
"Bobby isn't here right now."  
Sam rolls his eyes and murmurs, "I was talking about you, jerk."  
"And Bobby was the one that taught you about cars, bitch. I only taught you how to drive."  
Sam didn't seem to have a comeback for that, so he leaned over Rachel's shoulder to collect her bowl.  
If it were any other day, time, or person, Rachel wouldn't have thought much of it. For a few seconds, it was only the back of the chair separating her from Sam. His chin brushed against her shoulder, and his lips almost brushed her cheek. For a few seconds, she's sure that he slyly kissed her cheek, but then she realizes that he hadn't, and her mood takes a decidedly downhill turn. It had been a meaningless gesture – less than meaningless, it hadn't been a gesture at all. Sam had just been clearing the table, and had _just happened_ to get that close to her. It was a coincidence.  
A weird knot forms in her stomach, as she starts to wonder what made her so jumpy about it. She's just finished washing the dishes, and Sam's in the living room reading – no, wait, he's watching a movie. Rachel can hear the TV from here. She can hear Sam and Dean talking too.  
"What the hell? Of course the ghost survived, stupid bitch, you didn't – Dean, why are directors so stupid?"  
"Coz they're not hunters. If they were hunters, people wouldn't be so misinformed. 'Ghosts go away if you help them', none of the ghosts _we_ found ever went away when we helped them."  
"Helped them? Did we ever – yep, see, I was right, that guy dies."  
"Oh man, that is gross, you could've told me that happens!"  
"Sorry dude."  
"Bitch."  
"Jerk."  
Rachel can't help but smile in a puzzled sort of way. _What is with that? Any other guy would be offended.  
Ah, 'tis yet another part of the Winchester Mystery. Tune in eight years ago to find out the answers._  
The banter continues, as she turns away.  
"Anyway, why are you so grossed out? We've seen worse than that."  
"Did Dad ever tell you why I passed out the first time we went ghost hunting?"  
"Um…you got thrown down some stairs?"  
"No, I found a corpse. Then I passed out and _fell_ down the stairs. I lied to Dad."  
"If it makes you feel any better, I threw up after my first hunt."  
"Yeah, I know, I had to carry you back to the car."  
She wanders out onto the back porch, sitting with her legs hanging over the edge and toes almost touching the ground. Unbidden, the grief-knot returns in full force._  
Why do I keep watching for things like that? I'm his carer. That wouldn't be right. I'm supposed to take care of him, not…not…_  
The answer is glaringly obvious._  
Not fall in love with him._  
Rachel brings her knees up to her chest and puts her arms around them, wondering how you fall _out_ of love without ruining a good friendship.


	13. Jamais Vu

**SATURDAY**

Sam's gradually getting used to having Dean around. Some things are going to take a lot of getting used to – mostly Dean's habit of appearing out of nowhere, or the fact that just standing _near_ him feels like being in the Arctic – but he's sure that he will, given time.  
Dean stops showing up around the house so often, now that he's gotten over the initial excitement of being back. Sam sees him every now and then – in the kitchen at breakfast, out in the garage, watching TV or going through the assortment of CDs and videos that have accumulated in Rachel's bookshelf – but, for the most part, he's on his own again. And he doesn't hate it any more. Knowing that Dean's around, and being able to _almost_ sense his presence, is enough to keep Sam content. The eerie chill that's descended on the house is just a minor inconvenience.

Saturday afternoon usually equals shopping day. Rachel would go out to do the grocery shopping, and most weekends Sam would go with her. Then they'd stop by the hospital to hand in Sam's journal – which was usually only half-filled, seeing as there was never much to write about - and they would head back home. Some weeks, Rachel would take him to the library, or they'd stop and have lunch at a café somewhere. On rare occasions, they'd go to the park, and Rachel would sit and chat with her friends while Sam listened, and sometimes doodled in his sketchbook. Sam knew most of Rachel's friends fairly well, and they all seemed to like him. People in general seemed to like him – for example, Mrs. Lynchkey, the receptionist at the library, had practically adopted him as her grandson. Amanda, Mrs. Lynchkey's granddaughter, usually had time to spare to chat, or take a look at some of Sam's drawings. Conversations were usually very one-sided though. _But that is definitely going to change._  
Saturday proceeds as usual – grocery shopping, a quick stop at the hospital, then they head to the library. Mrs. Lynchkey is stamping several new books, and she doesn't seem to notice Sam approaching the desk. "Mrs. Lynchkey?"  
The old woman jumped, startled, then looked up. "Oh my, Samuel, you gave me such a fright then!"  
"Sorry. Um, I was wondering if-"  
"Oh my goodness, you've finally begun to talk! Well, this is a cause for celebration – Amanda?"  
"Yeah, Nan?" Amanda emerged from the door to the newspaper archives carrying a large box. She smiled when she saw Sam.  
"Could you see if there's any of that cake left in the fridge, dear?"  
"Why, what's the party?" Amanda dumps the box next to the desk, and leans on the polished wood.  
"Sam's decided to break his vow of silence!"  
Sam decides that now would be a good time to butt in. "Um, I was just wondering if I could-"  
Amanda cut him off again, this time suddenly hugging him. "Oh my god, you- oh my god!" She seemed lost for words, and hugged Sam again. Awkwardly, Sam hugged her back, all the while thinking, _What's up with everyone today? They're acting like it's some kind of miracle._**  
Aw, Sammy's got a fan club.**_  
Shut UP Dean!_**  
Make me.**  
Somehow, Sam ends up vividly remembering a scene from some space-horror movie that Rachel had hired once. It was a close-up of some alien's head, both sets of jaws extended, dripping slime as it waited to pounce on an unsuspecting…**  
Ugh! I can't believe you just did that to me! I am going to get you for that, bitch!**_  
Whatever, jerk._ Sam resists the temptation to do it again, as Amanda pulls him into another rib-bruising hug. "Amanda, I need to breathe!"  
"Sorry." She said, letting go of him. "But I just can't believe it!" She hugged him again, then Mrs. Lynchkey decided to interrupt them by saying, "Amanda, that's quite enough, you don't want to suffocate him! Go and see if there's any cake left."  
Amanda is about to leave when Sam finally gets a chance to speak. "Maybe another time, I was just wondering if I could use one of the computers?"  
Mrs. Lynchkey looks a little disappointed, but Amanda brightly says, "Sure, they're over here."  
As Amanda leads him through the shelves to the computers, something seems to suddenly shove Sam into one of the shelves. "Ow!"  
"Are you alright?"  
"Yeah, I just…bumped my arm, that's all."**  
Payback's a bitch, ain't it?**_  
Are you planning on being helpful at all?_**  
Research is your area, Sammy, I'm the one who does all the ass-kicking, remember?**_  
Yeah, but you're the one who knows everybody. I'm trying to find out what's going on – Bobby or Ellen might've moved since…anyway, I'm trying to find out where everyone is so that I can find someone who knows what's going on._**  
Sam, why are you pussyfooting around this again? I'm DEAD. D-E-A-D. Dead. Get over it.**_  
It's not as simple as that…_**  
Like hell it isn't! I'm dead, you're alive, nothing is gonna change that if I have a say in it.**_  
Let's not talk about this, okay?_**  
Whatever.**  
Sam's about to start looking on the Internet for everyone, when Amanda sits down next to him. "So, what are we looking for?"  
"Some old friends of mine. I haven't kept in contact with them, but I thought I might as well start now."  
Amanda got up. "Well, if you try the newspaper notices, you might find something."  
Sam thinks for a couple of seconds, then says, "You know what, that sounds like a really good idea."  
Amanda grins, and adds, "While you're looking, you can tell me what you think of my artwork. I've decided to start trying watercolour abstracts, I haven't been able to find anyone to look at them though."  
"Sounds good." Sam follows her to the dusty newspaper storage room.

The room itself is in disarray. There are boxes, empty and opened, scattered across the floor. There's a smell of dust and old paper in the air, and Sam sneezes several times as he begins flicking through the old newspapers. He starts with 2008, the year after Dean died.  
One article in particular catches his eye. "Joanna Elizabeth Harvelle, twenty-four, missing for six months, found in…Alberta?" Sam can't help but mutter to himself as he looks. He quickly scribbles in his notepad.  
Jo – missing 6 months, found in Alberta. What was she doing in Canada?  
He finds nothing else until mid-2008, in the form of an obituary.  
'Ellen Harvelle, forty-six, died June nineteenth 2008.' He can't help but grimace.  
Ellen – dead July 19 08. How?  
The next notice creates a painful knot in his stomach. 'Robert 'Bobby' Singer, fifty-nine, died October twenty-eighth 2008.'  
Bobby – dead October 28 08. How?  
'Gordon Walker, thirty-two, arrested for murder, death penalty carried out on January 7th 2009.'  
Gordon – got caught, death penalty. Jan 7 09.  
The death notices seem to go on and on, each one a greater blow than the last.  
'Bela Talbot, reported missing in Arizona, November 8th 2009.'  
Bela - missing, Arizona Nov 8 09  
Sam sighs. He can't think of anyone else to look for, but he had a start. Standing up, he stretches – sitting on the floor hunched over newspapers has made his neck and shoulders sore. Amanda was long-gone, but Sam manages to catch Mrs. Lynchkey at the front desk. She lets him know that it's closing time, so he heads out.

Rachel's waiting in the car, and he can see her holding a box. She always lets him drive – he knows the Impala, how it sounds, how it works, and he's not happy to let someone else drive it. Anyway, Dean left it to _Sam_. It wouldn't be right to let someone else drive it – _her, actually. Why are cars called she?_  
Sam smiles a little as he remembers asking Dean the same question once.  
'_Dean, why are cars called 'she'?'_  
'_I dunno. Dad, why are cars called 'she'?'_  
'_Ask Bobby, I don't know.'  
Nobody seemed to know – it was one of life's greatest mysteries._  
Rachel smiles at him as he gets into the car. "I got you something, I thought it might be useful."  
Sam does a double-take as he looks at the box while putting on his seatbelt. "You got another laptop?"  
"Yeah. I figured it was easier having one than going to the library to use the computers."  
"Thanks."  
"You're welcome."  
"Did you find what you were looking for?  
Sam grimaced again. "Sort of. Almost everyone that I used to know - Ellen, Bobby, Gordon, and a few others too - they're all dead."  
Rachel can't think of anything to say. _I guess I'm lucky I stayed here. I can keep in contact with everyone._  
Sam continues, unaware of Rachel's silence. "Jo's alive, she was missing for a while and then she turned up in Canada. Bela's been missing since '09, and there's a few people that I can't find at all. It's not a lot to go on, but I know where to go for answers now."  
The car trip home is silent, as Rachel wonders who Sam's friends were, and just what the big mystery is.

When they arrive home, Dean is nowhere to be seen. Sam thinks nothing of it. _Ghosts are…well, ghosts. They don't always hang around._  
He's quite sure Dean is off doing his own thing, at least until he feels someone jab their thumbs into the pressure points in his ribs. In reflex, he arches his back, and almost drops the new laptop. Dean emerges from behind him, an amused smirk on his face. Sam rolls his eyes and goes off to his room to set up the new laptop.  
"Hey Sammy! What's the news on people?"  
"Mostly dead. Jo's alive."  
"Whoa…slow that down and run it by me again…"  
Sam pauses, halfway up the stairs. "Ellen, Bobby and Gordon are all dead. Bela's been missing for a few years now, and she's probably dead. Almost everyone we knew is dead."  
Dean doesn't say anything. Sam vaguely senses him leave the room, and the atmosphere in the house becomes almost…mournful, in a way.

It takes time for them to find Dean's body. When they do, Sam decides to go alone with Dean.  
Getting back behind the wheel of the Impala is a test of the self. Sam knows that the Impala belongs to the great blank in his life, a blank that extends for most of his life. He remembers names, faces, snatches of conversations, places, and little things, but he can't remember anything coherent. Getting into the car, however, always brings more of a feeling of home than anything else – something tells him that this is significant. He takes a deep breath before turning the key in the ignition.  
As the engine rumbles into life, he catches Dean's reflection in the windscreen. He's sitting, almost sprawled out on the passenger's side, head back slightly and a radiant smile on his face. The sight of Dean looking so happy is enough to bring a smile to Sam's face too.

The drive to Oregon is a long one. Sam stops infrequently, his insomnia returning. After a time, the memories slowly begin to resurface, and as he drives he turns them over in his mind, and slots them into a timeline in his head. Someday, he hopes, all of it will be filled in.  
Some part of him comes to a realization that he hasn't just changed in his mind – he's physically changed too. Looking into the rearview mirror, he sees the changes instantly. His cheeks are sharply hollowed, his eyes deeply shadowed, with lines beginning to show around his mouth and eyes. He knows he's lost weight, and he's not as fit as he had been when he was hunting. Six years of almost minimal physical activity and eating only when he was hungry had stripped the muscle away from him. He knew that he looked almost starved now, but it no longer worried him as it occasionally had before. With a return to hunting would come a return to his old self, and life would resume its simplicity – eat, drink, sleep, drive, hunt, occasionally visit hospital or flee cops. Nothing much unusual…well, beyond the usual._  
Or something like that,_ he thought.  
Dean had been quiet for the whole trip, and Sam hadn't bothered to attempt conversation. Finally, some morbid part of him made him ask, "So…uh…what's it like being…dead?"  
Dean replies in a very quiet voice. "It's…weird. You don't feel anything when you die – it's like your whole body goes numb. After that…it's kinda like falling asleep, only you don't wake up. Well, normally."  
The sheer sincerity of the reply shut Sam up for the rest of the drive.


	14. Author's Note

*****This story has been discontinued!*****

I'm sorry to have to say this, but it doesn't look like 7 Days is updating anytime soon. I haven't been able to write anything for Supernatural since Season 3, and I don't think I'll be able to get back into it anytime soon. I'll try to update eventually, but don't hold your breath; it could be next week, it could be next year. I'll do what I can, but I can't make any definite promises.


End file.
